Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”

Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.

Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. “We surprised them, but it won’t hold them off for long.”

Lysandra stepped to Rolfe’s side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. “We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup.”

“I can’t carry your entire army to Orynth,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. “But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare.” The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. “She’s not here, is she.”

Lysandra shook her head. “No.”

“Then we’ll make do,” was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship’s rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.

None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.

Aedion murmured, “Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we’ll sail for the city.”

“I’ll do it,” Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn’t bother to say anything else. Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.

Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.

In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen’s armored shoulder. Ansel didn’t so much as glance up.

Aedion asked Rolfe, “How many of those firelances do you have?”

The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. “Not enough to outlast a siege.”

And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth’s walls.





CHAPTER 64


Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.

At the disaster they’d narrowly avoided, at the deaths she’d witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.

Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.

All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.

A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.

Yrene knelt over a ruk rider, the woman’s chest slashed open from a sword blow, and held out her bloodied, glowing hands.

Magic, clean and bright, flowed from her into the woman, mending torn skin and muscle. The blood loss would take time to recover from—but the woman had not lost so much of it that Yrene needed to expend her energy on refilling its levels.

She needed to rest soon. For a few hours.

She’d been asked to inspect the queen when she’d been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn’t been able to stop her hands from shaking as she’d hovered them over Aelin’s unconscious body.

There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself. Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.

Who held the might of a god within her veins.

Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he’d waved her off, claiming he’d come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.

So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.

To Lorcan, whose injuries … Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene’s had been so depleted.

The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn’t so much as stir while they worked on him.

That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.

Yes, she needed to rest.

Yrene aimed for the water station in the back of the hall, her mouth dry as paper. Some water, some food, and perhaps a nap. Then she’d be ready to work again.

But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.

Everyone halted—then rushed to the windows. Yrene’s smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.

To where the rest of the khagan’s army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.

Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.

From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.

Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin …

Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.

Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.

If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.



Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.

“You are one lucky bastard.”

Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys’s drawl.

Lorcan cracked open an eye, finding himself lying on a cot in a narrow chamber. A lone candle illuminated the space, dancing in the golden hair of the Fae warrior who sat in a wooden chair at the foot of his bed.

Fenrys’s smirk was a slash of white. “You’ve been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you.”

A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.

Lorcan shifted his body—slightly.

No hint of pain beyond a dull throb down his back and tight pull across his stomach. He managed to lift his head enough to rip away the heavy wool blanket covering his naked body. Where he’d been able to see his insides, only a thick red scar remained.

Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. “Elide.” Her name was a rasp on his tongue.

The last he remembered, they’d ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius’s unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.

“Helping with the healing in the Great Hall,” Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.

Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.

“Well, since you’re not dead,” Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.



Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn’t know.

The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then. Unless he’d slept so long they’d replaced the candle altogether.

He didn’t care. Not when the dim light revealed the delicate woman lying facedown on the end of his cot, the lower half of her body still on the wooden chair where Fenrys had been. Her arms cradled her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.

Elide.

Her dark hair spilled across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face.

Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Lorcan stretched his arm just enough to touch her fingers.

They were cold, their tips so much smaller than his. They contracted, pulling away as she sucked in a sharp, awakening breath.

Lorcan savored every feature as she grimaced at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settled on him.

She went still as she found him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had ridden through hell to find him …